


Cold Case Trilogy

by DPPatricks



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 23:43:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16650139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPPatricks/pseuds/DPPatricks
Summary: Starsky and Hutch have been promoted and assigned to a new Cold Case division.





	Cold Case Trilogy

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of an arc that my muses decided had to be written after I posted 'Miami Lines' on this site.  
> Sincere thanks to Beena for her enthusiastic beta!

Lieutenant Ken Hutchinson left the file he was reading open, sorted through the already-read stack on his left and pulled one out of the pile. Opening it next to the original, he looked across the desks to his partner, Lieutenant David Starsky. “Starsk…”

“Hmmmmm?” Starsky’s dark-curly-haired head remained bent over his reading and notes.

“I need one of the folders I passed over to you earlier.”

The head snapped up and Starsky’s immediately interested eyes met his. “You got something?”

“Maybe.” Hutch gestured toward the tower of folders on the right corner of his partner’s desk. “The name was Barksdale. Reginald, or Rupert, Roland, something like that.”

Starsky fingered through the tabs until he found the name. Instead of passing it across though, he got up and brought it around to Hutch’s side of the face-to-face tables they occupied in the small room that used to house supplies. It had been cleaned out and appropriated for the Cold Case office because Lieutenants Hutchinson and Starsky were the only officers assigned to the new division and wouldn’t need much space. Also, it was next door to Records and Information. Sergeant Minnie Kaplan, purveyor of all-things-computer, was the newly-minted Lieutenant pair’s most ardent helper and supporter. Hutch knew he and Starsky would never make any headway with the department’s unsolveds without Minnie’s considerable help.

Starsky handed Hutch the folder. “I haven’t gotten to it, yet. Talk to me.”

Hutch opened it on top of the other two and read the name. “Barksdale, Roman.” He glanced at Starsky. “Not the given name I remembered but not very common.”

“And you’re thinking he’s connected to these other cases you have open?”

Hutch spread the three out. “In two of them, including Barksdale, a husband was murdered one month after his wife died in a tragic accident. In the third, the wife was murdered a month after her husband committed suicide. Each of the families had two children, a boy who was twelve years old, and a girl. The three females were eight, eleven, and fourteen.”

Starsky paged quickly through the files, noting dates and facts. “Thirty days apart, plus a twelve year old boy, in each case.” He glanced up and caught Hutch’s intense gaze. “Not that many red-flag similarities but what are the odds?”

“Pretty high would be my guess.”

Starsky pushed stacks of folders to the edges of the desks and spread out the ones of concern. “What kind of time span?”

“Barksdale was last year…” Hutch checked the tabs. “These two in ‘79 and ‘75, so four and eight years.”

Starsky was scanning all three files at once. “If it _is_ a serial killer, there may be earlier ones, or others in between that we haven’t pulled yet.”

“Let’s start with these.” Hutch wrote the spouses’ names on a pad of paper before picking up his phone, punching three numbers, and activating the speaker. “Hey, Minnie, have you got a minute?”

Minnie’s cheerful voice spilled into the room. “Hi, neighbor. Whatcha need?”

“The closed-case files for Jane Barksdale - domestic accident, ‘82, Stephanie McKinney - also a domestic accident, ‘79, and Tyler Johnston - suicide, ‘75.”

“And they belong with murders you’ve got?” Her voice didn’t sound like she doubted him, it was just a question.

“They’re the wives and husband of three of them,” Hutch told her.

Minnie was sharp as a tack and Hutch knew she wouldn’t need things spelled out. “Okay, so maybe they weren’t accidents and suicide.” Her tone had lost its cheer. “I’m stuck here for a while but I’ll run downstairs and pull them as soon as I can.”

“We could do that if you want, Minnie,” Starsky offered.

“Don’t you dare, Starsky! You screw up my filing system and I’ll see to it that the Chief fires your bright shiny Lieutenants’ asses.”

Starsky laughed. “Just a thought. Whenever you have a chance will be great. We’ve got more than enough to keep us busy.”

Her smile came through the phone line. “Don’t I know it. I’ll be there as soon I can.”

“Thanks, Min.” Hutch disconnected and looked at Starsky. “While we’re waiting, tell me about what caught your interest over there?” He motioned to the folder Starsky had been reading.

Starsky got up and walked to the coffee machine on top of their single filing cabinet. He poured two cups and came back to sit beside Hutch again. “That can wait. I feel pretty sure it’s an isolated case. Something about it bothers me but it isn’t going anywhere.” He stared at the three that were open in front of Hutch. “My gut tells me you’re right about these though, partner, and a serial could still be active. Good catch.”

“This is a whole new thing for us, Starsk, and I like the different thinking it takes, looking for repetitions, connections, even coincidences.”

Starsky shook his head. “No such thing, as we know.” He pulled one of the files closer and began reading. “Here we have Roman Barksdale. White male, thirty-three. He and his wife, Jane, also white, thirty-two, owned a dinner theater. Two children, Ben, twelve, and Beverly, eight.”

“Model citizens, according to neighbors and employees.” Hutch reached across Starsky’s arm and flipped a few pages. “They moved here from Richmond, VA, where they’d both worked at a similar place. Wanted to bring the fairly recent innovation in entertainment to Bay City.”

Starsky turned back to the front. “Roman was attacked, beaten and stabbed, as he was closing the gate to the theater’s parking lot after the audience and actors had left. Cooks and the staff who didn’t double as performers, were long gone. It was a little after midnight. He and his kids lived on the upper floor. The children were asleep.”

Hutch nodded. “Jane had taken a fatal fall down the basement stairs a month earlier. We’ll hope the closed file Minnie’s looking for will have more details. Barksdale had hired a housekeeper but she didn’t live there.”

“What happened to Ben and Beverly?”

“Grandparents.”

Starsky found the notation. “That’s good, at least they didn’t get put into the system.”

“For some reason I can’t put my finger on, I’m suspicious of the fall down the stairs but let’s wait to see what Minnie brings us.” Hutch shuffled the second folder to the top. 

Starsky scanned. “George McKinney. Retired Air Force Light Colonel. Fifty years old - again, Caucasian - consultant to military contractors.”

“Wife, Stephanie.” Hutch checked his notes “She was thirty-five, white, and according to the brief bit of information in the Colonel’s file, had died when their mobile home burned thirty days earlier. With no reason to suspect arson or foul play, it’s barely a cross-reference in there.”

Starsky kept reading. “Twelve-year-old son named Craig, fourteen-year-old daughter named Paula. Both at school when it happened.”

“McKinney was bludgeoned to death in the airport parking structure as he walked to his car. It had been his first consulting trip out of town since getting Craig and Paula, plus a housekeeper, settled into a new place in the same mobile home park.” Hutch flipped to the end. “No suspects, no known reason for the extreme violence the killer used. The coroner’s report said it was definitely over-kill but none of the neighbors, business associates, or friends could offer an explanation as to why.”

“Kids went to foster homes this time,” Starsky noted. 

Hutch brought the third folder forward. “Jessica Johnston. Black. This one’s different, Starsk.”

Starsky read quickly. “Yeah. This time, it was the wife, aged thirty, stabbed repeatedly outside the back door of ‘Soulful’.” 

“She was the chef at their small restaurant.” 

Starsky raised an eyebrow. “Soul food?” 

Hutch nodded. “She’d been the last person to leave - usually was - and had just locked up. No witnesses.” 

Starsky verified dates. “Exactly one month after her husband hanged himself in their garage.”

Hutch caught his partner’s eye. “We should ask Huggy if he knew her.”

“Yes we should.” 

“William, aged twelve, and Monica, aged eleven.” Hutch couldn’t hide his sadness. “Lots of family but nobody willing to take them so they were split up and sent to foster care.”

“There’s a pattern here, Hutch, but we’re missing something.”

Hutch skimmed his file again. “We need to re-interview everybody. There has to be a connection between these three families.”

Starsky picked up the second folder. “The detectives in each case weren’t looking because they didn’t realize one existed.” 

“But we see two: the thirty-day timing, and a twelve-year-old boy.” Hutch closed the file abruptly. “We’ll find it.” He sat back and swallowed coffee. “While we wait for Minnie, tell me about your case.” 

Starsky got up and grabbed the folder from his desk before sitting back down and picking up his mug. “This one just feels wrong to me but it isn’t anything I can fault the original investigators for. They did everything they could.” He handed Hutch the file. “Marybeth and Steve Conners. She was twenty-seven at the time, he was thirty. Both white. Married six years. One child, Gretchen, five years old. Steve was a buyer for Men’s Warehouse, traveled all over the southwest, three weeks out of four. Wife was heavily involved in charity work with multiple organizations and spent very little time at home.”

“Where was ‘home’?”

“Nice apartment in a high-rise on Montgomery. Wife inherited big bucks from her family, they had no money worries. She kept the place after he died and still lives there, still does her charity work.”

“Who takes care of the child?”

“At the time, it was a nanny named Hilda, who was also the housekeeper. She showed up at seven a.m., Monday through Saturday, did the cooking, cleaning and laundry as well as got Gretchen ready for school, walked her to the bus, and met her when she came home. She left every night just before dinner.”

“Dedicated nanny,” Hutch said.

“I’ll say. But she admitted to being well compensated.”

“I notice you used the past tense.”

Starsky found the appropriate page. “A month after Steve’s death, Charlotte Carson, a friend of theirs, moved in and Hilda was dismissed.”

“Interesting.” Hutch studied his partner’s intense face. “So, what’s the story?”

“Marybeth came home from a thousand-dollar-a-plate benefit one Sunday night - the daughter was at a friend’s house for a slumber party - and found hubby dead in the shower. The water was still running and, since his body was lying on the drain, the bathroom was flooded.”

Hutch shuddered. “Not a good scene.”

“Marybeth started screaming. The across-the-hall neighbor, Charlotte Carson, was the first to come running.”

“The person who moved in later?” 

Starsky’s eyes turned flinty and Hutch instinctively knew this was one of the problems Starsky had with the case. “The very same.”

“She had a key?”

“Apparently she and Marybeth were almost like sisters so, yes, she had a key. She turned off the water - which she said had run stone cold - even though the apartment has its own fifty-gallon water heater. Ms. Carson got the wife out to the living room and called the cops.”

“Any sign of forced entry?”

“None. Wife was at a charity event with countless witnesses, child was at a friend’s, so the detectives figured a mistress. Husband came home early from his latest business trip, had a quickie with the fluff piece, she took exception to something he said, and killed him.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“The usual.” Starsky’s tone was bland. “Blunt force trauma.” 

“The weapon?”

“Not found.”

Hutch flipped through again. “Did Charlotte Carson, or anyone else think the other woman was a possibility?”

“No, but unsigned letters in a feminine handwriting were found in his sock drawer.”

“His _sock_ drawer?” 

Starsky shrugged. “That’s one of the things that doesn’t make any sense to me but some guys have no imagination.”

“Did they find the mistress?”

“Nope. Not one person they interviewed had an inkling that he was diddling around.”

“How long ago did all this happen?”

“Three years. Marybeth hasn’t given up badgering the original detectives. Every month or so she calls to ask if they’ve made any progress. She was, apparently, devastated by his death. And she never believed he was cheating on her. She said her husband had always been faithful. They’d been lovers since college and married for years. She was positive he didn’t have some unknown floozy on the side. She swore she’d have known if he had.”

“Given the fact that she might have been involved, somehow,” Hutch mused, “she must be a consummate actress, to keep up the subterfuge all this time.”

Starsky took the folder back and paged through it again. “I can’t pinpoint why this one bothers me but it does.”

“As soon as we have time, Starsk, we’ll start from the beginning. I trust your instincts.” Starsky gifted him with the boyishly grateful smile Hutch adored. It took so little to please his partner, he was happy to have voiced deserved praise.

A knock sounded on the door and Minnie stuck her head in. “Is this a good time?”

Starsky closed his folder and tossed it onto his desk. “Perfect, Min. What have you got?”

Minnie laid three slim folders on top of the ones in front of Hutch, pulled up the last chair in the room and sat down. “Not too much. They’re pretty thin but they don’t read as if the investigators cut any corners. Two accidents and a suicide.”

Hutch raised an eyebrow. “You read fast.”

“I do when there’s not a whole lot to read.” Her tone was unabashed.

Hutch opened the first one. “Barksdale, Jane. Caucasian. Thirty-five years old. Accidental death determined because she was found, by her children when they came home from school, at the bottom of the basement stairs. A laundry basket with sheets and towels was spilled nearby and she was still clutching one of the handles. Coroner said she’d broken her neck in the fall and had been dead since about noon.”

Minnie nodded. “Husband had an iron-clad alibi. He left the theater at ten a.m. and drove to his usual restaurant supply house up in L.A. While his order was being assembled, he and the business’ owner, a man named, Jamison, had an early lunch at the café down the street.”

Hutch followed her recitation in the file. “Afterward, back at the warehouse, Barksdale loaded up and drove to his printer. There, he submitted, talked about, and finalized the menu, advertising and booklets for the theater’s next production. These were things he did on the first Tuesday of every month, like clockwork.”

Minnie jumped back in. “The investigators said it usually took most of the day and Barksdale almost never made it home before the kids, who got there around three.”

“Anyone could have discovered all that,” Starsky said, “and known Jane would be alone. Not too difficult, if you know how, to break a woman’s neck and then push her down the stairs.”

Hutch quickly scanned the rest of the information. “According to friends, employees and neighbors, she had no enemies. Detectives couldn’t find any reason why someone would want to kill her.” He read further. “Reportedly a mousy sort of lady who never argued with anyone, she supported her husband in all decisions and kept to the background in the doings at their theater.”

“And a month later, her husband’s dead, too.” Starsky picked up and opened the second folder. “Stephanie McKinney. Caucasian, thirty-five. Died of smoke inhalation.”

Minnie turned a page for him. “The Colonel also had an unbreakable alibi. He was in Phoenix with a client. Interviews and receipts confirm.”

Hutch read over Starsky’s shoulder. “It was determined that she was canning peaches and forgot she’d left the paraffin to melt on the stove. Investigators figured it caught fire, she ran to put it out, tripped over something, hit her head on the edge of the counter, and succumbed before the fire reached her.”

“Again,” Starsky added, “no enemies or reason for anyone to want her dead. She was, to all appearances, a regular mom and wife who canned fruits and vegetables.” He noticed something. “Oh, wait, she also cleaned house for several of the residents in the mobile home park where they lived. No one had a bad word to say about her.” He looked up. “Case closed and another check mark in the domestic accident column.” 

Hutch looked at his partner. “When the Colonel was killed thirty days later, nobody went back and looked closer at the wife’s supposed accident.” He paged back through the file. “What did the children have to say?”

Minnie shook her head. “Whatever it was, if anything, didn’t make it into the file.” She gestured to the others. “Any of them! No statements from the children at all.”

“Probably too shook up,” Starsky said. “And since the arson investigator said ‘accident,’ nobody pressed Craig and Paula.”

Minnie opened the final file and handed it to Starsky. “Tyler Johnston. Black. Thirty-eight.” 

Starsky scanned quickly. “Not much here. Mechanic at the local Manny, Moe and Jack. Had a bit of a temper, according to co-workers, but was never charged with anything. Went out to the garage one night, after William and Monica had left for a friend’s house and before Jessica got home from the restaurant, put one end of a rope around his neck and the other end over a joist, stepped off a ladder, and hung himself.”

Hutch took the folder and skimmed. “Friends, co-workers and employees didn’t think he’d been depressed. No one could come up with a reason why he’d do such a thing.”

Starsky closed all six files and stacked them. “We need to find the kids, Hutch. Talk to them.”

“Definitely!” Hutch slid the pile closer. “They should have been questioned at the time and, if they were, their responses should have been noted. If they weren’t, the detectives were lax.”

“Listen, guys,” Minnie broke in. “I’m not making excuses for them but as heavy a case-load as all of you carry, what appeared to be clear cut incidents of suicide and accidental death may not have gotten the attention you two would have given them.”

Starsky gave her one of his lop-sided smiles. “Thanks for the compliment, Min and, don’t worry, we’re not going to ruffle any feathers.”

“No, we’re not,” Hutch agreed. “Children, though, are often more aware of things than adults think. Each of them should have been interviewed at the time and we’ll hope they were. Whatever they said wasn’t included in the information we have so we’ll see if they remember something now.”

Minnie pushed her chair back, got up and headed for the door. “Bring me a list of the names and I’ll find the addresses.”

Hutch pulled a pad of paper over and started writing. 

*******

Captain Harold Dobey swallowed his bite of ham-n-Swiss on rye and wiped the excess mustard off his mouth. “Minnie’s found current addresses for the six children, is that right?” He picked up the second half of his sandwich.

Hutch nodded, the last portion of his turkey and sprouts on wheat in his hand. “We have an appointment to see the Barksdale kids this afternoon.”

Starsky sat forward in the second guest chair, his lunch already gobbled. “We’ll have time to talk with the grandparents first, before Ben and Beverly get home from school.”

Dobey cleaned his fingers on a napkin and sat back. “I knew you boys would bring fresh eyes to these cases.”

“The original teams did okay, Cap,” Starsky said, “they just didn’t keep going back and making connections.”

“Starsky and I think the children, and whatever they might have known, suspected or seen, were given short shrift. We’re going to find out what they can tell us now.”

“They’re all still juveniles, aren’t they?” Dobey asked.

“Paula McKinney turned eighteen a couple of months ago,” Starsky said. “She’s out on her own.”

“William Johnston’s twenty,” Hutch added. “He works at the same auto mechanic’s shop that employed his father.”

“No matter how old they are, go easy on ‘em, okay?” Dobey cautioned.

Starsky stood up and headed for the hallway door. “You bet, Cap’n! They lost their folks under the worst kind of circumstances. We’re not going to rock their boat.”

“Keep me informed.” Dobey handed the six folders to Hutch as he got up.

Starsky opened the door for Hutch. “You got it!”

*******

Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Barksdale lived in a modest home a mile or so from the coast; close enough to get the benefit of ocean breezes but not enough to be into unaffordable real estate. 

Hutch and Starsky were shown into a tidy living room where they sat next to each other on the chintz couch while Anthony and his wife, Donna, sat across the cocktail table in large wing back chairs. Donna reached for her husband’s hand. “You said on the phone that you’re looking into Roman’s death?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hutch replied.

“His and his wife’s,” Starsky added.

“Jane?” Donna asked. “But her death was an accident. Wasn’t it?”

“We’re thinking there’s a possibility it wasn’t,” Starsky said.

She definitely didn’t know what to make of that. “Really.”

Hutch was studying both grandparents and saw confusion in her face, guarded concern in his. “Is there anything either of you has thought of since the last time you spoke with the original officers?”

Donna glanced at Anthony as he shook his head. She looked back at Hutch, defeat in her gaze. “No, nothing. We never understood how any of it could have happened. Or why! Jane was such a careful person and Roman didn’t have an enemy in the world!”

Hutch was still getting unsettled vibes off the grandfather and, checking silently with Starsky, knew his partner was sensing the same thing. He kept his voice level when he returned his attention to Donna and Anthony. “How have Ben and Beverly been this past year?”

“How do you _expect_?” Mr. Barksdale’s sudden anger was almost palpable. “They lost both parents within a month of each other! Their mother from a stupid accident and their father from violence.”

Donna squeezed his hand. “Now, dear, you mustn’t take your frustration out on these new officers. They’re only trying to help.”

He shook off her hand, got up and stalked out of the room. 

Donna laced her trembling fingers in her lap. “Please don’t be offended, Detectives. My husband took the death of our son very hard. Roman was his favorite.” Her gaze appealed for understanding. “We had six children but Roman was the only boy and Anthony paid special attention to him, made sure they spent lots of time together. I was both mother and father to our five girls.”

Hutch and Starsky exchanged a look before Starsky sat forward. “Are Ben and Beverly doing okay in school? Any problems?”

She sat back, clearly attempting to relax. “Except for the fact that Ben hardly ever says a word to anyone, they’re doing fine. Their grades are excellent and Ben only has trouble when he’s forced to talk. He simply can’t do oral book reports, for instance. He writes the answers to questions and the teachers have learned to be satisfied with that.”

“Other than Ben being so quiet, though,” Hutch said, “they’re adjusting well?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she answered.

The front door opened and Ben, now thirteen, and Paula, nine, came in, large book bags dangling from arms, a small purse over Paula’s shoulder. They stopped in the entryway, staring warily at Hutch and Starsky.

Donna, Hutch and Starsky got to their feet. Donna moved quickly to the children, took their satchels and purse and laid them on the hall table, before leading them into the living room. “Ben, Beverly, this is Detective Hutchinson and Detective Starsky.”

Hutch shook each of their tentative hands. “Hello. I’m Ken.”

Starsky stuck his hand out and gave each of theirs a firm shake. “Hi. My name’s Dave.”

“Sit down, you two.” Mrs. Barksdale carefully guided them into the wing back Anthony had vacated. Ben put his arm around Beverly and drew her close. Her expression was curious, his was blank.

“These gentlemen have taken over the investigation into your parents’ deaths,” Donna told them.

“It’s about time!” Beverly’s nine-year-old voice sounded very grown up. 

“Now, Beverly, you don’t want to --” Donna cautioned.

Hutch interrupted gently. “Let her say what she needs to, Mrs. Barksdale. Please.” He and Starsky sat back down so Donna did, too. 

Starsky sent encouragement to the girl. “Tell us, Beverly. Anything you remember.”

“Mom _never_ did laundry on Tuesday,” Beverly stated in no uncertain terms. “She and I changed the sheets and did laundry on Saturday, always! It was our time together, just the two of us. I told the detectives that but they didn’t pay any attention to me!” She stared at Hutch, then Starsky, trying to see if she’d be believed this time.

Starsky looked at the boy. “And you, Ben? What can you tell us about how either one of your parents died?”

When Ben didn’t answer, Hutch prodded softly. “Anything at all. Children are usually a lot more aware of what’s going on around them than adults give them credit for.”

Ben opened his mouth as if to speak but snapped it shut before he made a sound.

Donna jumped up and pulled the kids to their feet. She ushered them into the hallway, handed them their belongings and nudged them toward the stairs. “Go get started on your homework. Grandpa will be up to check on your progress in a while.”

Ben took Beverly’s hand and led her up the steps. After they disappeared, Donna came back into the living room and sank into her chair. “I was afraid he wouldn’t speak. He’s been like that since it happened.”

“Have you thought about getting him some help?” Hutch asked.

“I want him to see a psychiatrist but Anthony won’t hear of it. He says the boy’ll grow up sooner or later.”

*******

That night, Hutch brushed the hair off his partner’s brow and pillowed the dark-haired head on his shoulder. “Why do I see Guy Mayer’s face in my mind, Starsk?”

Starsky didn’t hesitate, which told Hutch his partner had been having the same thoughts. “He was younger, wasn’t he? Eight or something?”

“Yes, but his sad eyes are looking up at me from that trashcan.”

Starsky tightened his arms around Hutch’s waist. “You think Ben was abused? Maybe all three boys, and that’s the connection?”

“Remember what Sheila Peterson told us? Silence when being questioned is one of the signs.”

“God, I hope you’re wrong.” 

*******

Paula McKinney, eighteen, answered the door at the apartment they knew she shared with a co-worker. “Come on in, fellas, I’ve got a few minutes before I have to leave for work. Beryl, my roommate, and I have both signed up for manager training so maybe working at Taco Bell isn’t the worst job in the world.” She ushered them into a small, sparsely furnished living room and gestured to a group of mismatched arm chairs. “I don’t know if I can add anything to what I told the original detectives.”

Hutch sat in one of the chairs and Starsky perched on the arm while Paula dropped into another.

“Whatever that was, Paula,” Starsky said, apology in his voice, “it didn’t get into the file.”

Her surprise was evident. “Really?” She sighed and rubbed the knees of her uniform trousers. “Although I was pretty sure they didn’t think I knew what I was talking about, I hoped they’d at least write it down.”

“So tell us now, Paula,” Hutch urged. “We want to hear anything you have to say.” 

Paula folded her arms across her chest, belligerent and defensive at the same time. “Mother would _never_ have left the paraffin unattended. We canned stuff together all the time and mom always stressed how important it was to keep an eye on the melting wax. Her own mom had been badly burned that way and my mother would _not_ have made that mistake!”

Starsky caught Hutch’s eye. _This is the second time the daughter’s opinion wasn’t considered important enough to note in the file._

Hutch could only nod in agreement.

*******

They caught up with Craig at the home of his foster parents, the Grants. Both adults hovered in the background while first Hutch, then Starsky tried to find a subject that would solicit a response from the uncommunicative, morose young man.

All manner of sports, fast cars, girls, movies, books… nothing elicited an answer - not even a changed expression. Hutch was getting downright depressed when they finally thanked the boy and his guardians and left.

Back in the Torino, Starsky started the engine but didn’t move the gear shift. “That’s two, Hutch.”

“I know. And even though I can barely remember being sixteen, I’m pretty damn sure I’d have been willing to talk about at least one of the subjects we tried. Probably baseball.”

“Or girls?” 

Hutch laughed. “Oh, the hormones! Pretty sure I remember those.”

Starsky chuckled and dropped the shifter into Drive. “Have we got time to catch up with William Johnston before he leaves work?”

Hutch checked his watch. “Plenty. The manager told me he’ll be there ‘til they close at seven.”

Starsky drove across town and pulled into the customers’ parking lot at the same auto mechanic’s shop Tyler Johnston had worked at. 

As they got out of the car, Hutch was the first to recognize William. He was standing under a BMW that was up on the lift, positioning the drip pan under the oil filter and getting ready to remove it. Hutch nudged Starsky and started toward the service bay.

A supervisor-type exited the office and stood in their way. “No one in there without permission.”

Starsky held up his shield. “We need to talk to William Johnston. Your manager said it’d be okay.”

The guy backed off. “Oh, yeah, sure. Go ahead. Just try to keep it short, will ya? He’s gotta finish that oil change and lube before we close tonight.”

Starsky shrugged, putting his I.D. away. “We won’t be long.”

William Johnston barely glanced at them as Hutch approached, holding his credentials up. “William Johnston? I’m Detective Hutchinson, this is my partner, Detective Starsky. Have you got a minute?”

“Not really.” Johnston dropped the old filter into the pan, plainly not caring if his visitors got splashed. He shouldered Hutch aside, stalked to the tool bench and picked up a grease gun.

Starsky idly rolled the left front tire on the Beemer while Hutch gave William plenty of room coming back with the filthy appliance. As Will began work on the right front wheel, Hutch folded his wallet and put it away. “Your boss said it was okay if we talked to you.”

“So, talk.” William didn’t look at either of them.

“Look, Will --” Starsky began.

William spun around and glared, first at Starsky, then Hutch, and back at Starsky. “I don’t know you. You sure as hell don’t know me, so don’t pretend we’re friends.” He turned back to the wheel.

Hutch and Starsky moved closer, bracketing him.

“We know you’ve had some trouble since your parents died.” Hutch kept his voice low. He didn’t want any of the other mechanics to overhear, giving them a possible reason to hassle William. 

“Two stints in juvie,” Starsky added, equally quietly. “But nothing recent, and that’s good.”

William glared over his shoulder. “You just said it, cop. Nothing recent. Now get out of my service bay, and stay outta my life! I got nothing to say to you!”

Knowing they weren’t going to get anything out of the angry young man until they could give him some incentive to talk, Hutch put a hand on Starsky’s back and nudged him toward the Torino. 

“That kid’s closed up tighter than a drum,” Starsky muttered.

“You’ll find the key, Starsk. You always do.”

Starsky gave Hutch a ‘thanks, buddy’ smile over the roof of the car before they got in. He fired up the engine and drove them to the address they had for William’s sister, Monica. 

Hutch knew she was a topless dancer at one of the best gentleman’s clubs but he wasn’t prepared for the statuesque ebony beauty who answered the door.

After she had inspected their badges, she showed them into a beautifully appointed living room. Hutch exchanged a quick glance with Starsky and saw his own surprise mirrored in his partner’s eyes.

Catching their expressions, she smiled brightly. “I make several hundred a night in tips, officers. More if I’m hired for a private party.” She sat casually in a sling chair and motioned them to the sofa. “But I don’t fuck.”

Hutch was only slightly shocked by the word and believed her. He took a seat and Starsky sat next to him.

“You’re here about William, aren’t you?” Her voice was soft with concern.

“We’re here, Monica, because we’re investigating your mother’s and father’s deaths,” Hutch said.

She absorbed the words and nodded. “You’re here about William.”

Starsky shot Hutch an intense look before leaning toward Monica. “Care to explain what you mean?”

Monica stopped affecting worldliness and allowed them to see her inner turmoil and sorrow. “I always thought they were killed because of Will.”

“Your father’s death was ruled a suicide,” Starsky pointed out.

Her gaze lost its sparkle. “Only I think we’re all pretty sure it wasn’t.”

“Did you tell the original detectives your theory?” Hutch kept his tone non-judgmental.

“No. We only talked to them one time. When they weren’t interested in anything I had to say, I didn’t bother. And, as I remember, my brother never even opened his mouth.”

“So tell _us_ ,” Hutch prompted.

“We’re listening.” Starsky gave her his full concentration. 

“Will had problems at home. I thought getting into the Boy Scouts would help but he was one of the first blacks in his troop and didn’t make friends easily.”

Hutch took out a small pad of paper and made a note. “His was an integrated group?”

“Yes, one of the early ones. His troop leader came to the house a few weeks after Will started going to meetings regularly and told mom and dad how well he thought Will would do. They’d only allowed him to join after he’d begged but I think he really just wanted to get out of the house for those few hours every week.”

“Was it so terrible in your house?” Starsky asked.

“Not for me.” Monica must not have been willing to look at them because she closed her eyes. “I think my mother abused Will, though, so it was awful for him.”

Hutch felt his gut tighten but kept the horror out of his voice. “Why do you say that?” 

When she looked at them, there were tears in her eyes. “Even after Will started growing up, she insisted on giving him his bath every Sunday night. One time, I saw him running to his room from the bathroom, holding his crotch. He was crying.”

“Did your…” Starsky cleared his throat and tried again. “Did your father know about this?”

The tears began to fall but she ignored them. “The one time I tried to tell him, he insisted I forget it. Said every boy has to grow up sometime.”

“Do you think anyone else knew?” Hutch didn’t want to press too hard but he and Starsky had to know.

“I believe his troop leader suspected.” Monica got up, walked out of the room and came back with a box of tissues. Sitting down, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Composed again, she stared at Hutch, then Starsky. “He asked a lot of questions the night he came around. I was afraid mom would make Will give up scouting but she didn’t. Dad must have convinced her to let him stay. Maybe he hoped if Will developed enough self-respect, mom would leave him alone. Or Will would make her stop what she was doing.” 

Starsky sat forward. “Do you remember the scout leader’s name?” 

“No.” She shook her head. “I only saw him that once. He was a nebbishy little guy, looked like he didn’t want to get into an argument. He just kinda checked the house out, asked a bunch of questions, and said he wanted my folks to know how well he thought William would do in his troop.”

*******

Dobey was appalled after being brought up to date. “You think Sheila Peterson and her division could help?”

Hutch shook his head. “The abuse, if it did happen, is long over with.”

“Wait, Hutch,” Starsky broke in. “We need to talk to the three boys together, right?” When both Hutch and Dobey nodded, Starsky continued. “Sheila could give us the official leverage we might need to get them all here. Just some subtle pressure, no real threats or anything.”

Dobey apparently liked the idea. “That’s good, Starsky. Go talk to her.”

*******

Detective Sheila Peterson was as swamped under file folders as she’d been during the Mayer case but she listened, growing increasingly sorrowful. “Three twelve-year-old boys, huh?”

“That’s right.” Starsky picked up a stuffed elephant and wandered around the office.

“They’re older now, of course.” Hutch leaned on the front edge of her desk. “We haven’t been able to get a single word out of two of them, and only anger from the third.”

Starsky came over. “Hutch and I need to talk to all three at the same time.”

Hutch straightened up and took the gray animal with feigned disapproval. “You’re a Democrat, Starsk!”

Starsky snatched the rotund critter back. “He winked at me! I had to pick him up.” He grinned. “Besides, I’ve been to your parents’ house. It’s got elephants all over the place!”

“My folks are Republicans,” Hutch sourly reminded his partner. “You know that.”

“Yeah, well, just because you’re the first non-elephant-follower in your family’s entire history…”

Sheila laughed and raised her hands in mock-surrender. “Okay. What can I do, fellas?”

Hutch leaned on the desk again. “We thought, if you called William, the Barksdales, and the Grants, you could use your influence to get them to come in.”

Starsky placed the elephant in the middle of her desk, pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Names and numbers are all there. And if you’d be willing to lend your expertise to the interview, we’d really appreciate it.”

Hutch could tell she was hooked and, not wanting to overstay their welcome, dragged Starsky toward the door. “Let us know when, okay?” 

*******

Even though none of the young men was still being abused, Sheila managed to get Ben and his grandparents, Craig and his foster mother, and William into a conference room at Metro.

Tension was almost thick enough to cut and, after introductions, Hutch motioned for Sheila to take the chair at the head of the table. He and Starsky sat to her left. Ben scrunched into the chair between his grandparents while Craig and Mrs. Grant were across from them. William sat, alone, at the far end. 

Sheila nodded at Hutch and Starsky before slowly scanning each of the other faces. “Thank you all for coming here today. Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson realize that this is going to be difficult, for all of you. But, believe me, it is necessary.”

Anthony Barksdale’s belligerence was on full display as he glared at all the people he’d plainly never seen before. “I don’t know what kind of authority you think you have, lady, but --”

Hutch raised the index finger of his right hand toward Ben’s grandfather. “She has the authority of the Metro Division of the Bay City Police Department, Mr. Barksdale, and you _will_ listen to her.” Both Sheila and Starsky put a hand on one of his arms and he forced himself to settle.

Sheila smiled at Mr. Barksdale. “What Hutch said is technically correct, sir, but the crimes he, Detective Starsky, and I suspect took place aren’t the main reason why we’ve asked you all here.”

Donna Barksdale was wide-eyed. “What crimes are you talking about?”

Sheila deferred to Hutch and he clasped his hands in front of him. “We believe these three young men…” He nodded at each, “were the victims of child abuse.”

Ben’s face was pale but composed. The look in Craig’s eyes was surly and sullen. William rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, tented his fingers under his chin and stared at Hutch will undeniable challenge.

Starsky sat forward. “We’re not here to cause trouble for any of you. What happened, if it did, is in the past. But my partner and I suspect that the abuse you three suffered could be the reason your parents were killed.”

Donna gasped. “Killed? You mean what you implied at our house was true? Jane’s death wasn’t an accident?”

Starsky shook his head. “No ma’am, we don’t think it was.”

No one moved or spoke until, “She wouldn’t stop him.” 

The words were spoken so softly it took a moment for Hutch to realize that Ben had broken his silence. When he did, he put a hand up and stopped Donna from enfolding the boy. “Please let him finish, Mrs. Barksdale.” She sat back and Hutch caught the boy’s eyes. “Tell us about it, Ben.”

The kid straightened his shoulders. “He beat me…. From the time I was about four, I think.” No one seemed to breathe. “Sometimes it was for something I’d done wrong but, most times, it was just ‘cause he wanted to. ‘Cause he could.”

“Did anyone know this was happening?” Sheila asked into the silence.

“Mom knew.”

Donna cringed but didn’t say anything.

“Anyone else?” Hutch held his breath, hoping for the answer he and Starsky had begun to suspect.

“My scout troop leader. Mr. Gillespie,” Ben answered.

William slapped the edge of the table and the sound startled everyone. “He was yours, too?”

All eyes were focused on William now. His anger seemed to have vanished and in its place came possible understanding. “Nolan Gillespie was the kindest man I’ve ever known.”

“Me, too!” Craig shouted. “He saw my bruises one day and made me tell him.” The boy looked around the table, as if for affirmation.

Starsky nodded. “Go on, Craig. What else?”

Tears were leaking from the corners of young McKinney’s eyes but he sat as tall as he could. “I tried to tell my mom but she shook me real hard and said to stop saying things that weren’t true. She said nobody would ever believe me if I started lying.”

“But you weren’t lying.” Starsky’s voice was nearly a whisper and Hutch knew his partner, and probably Sheila, were reliving the Guy Mayer case.

“No, I wasn’t,” Craig vowed.

“Neither was I,” both William and Ben said at the same moment.

“And nobody believed you except Mr. Gillespie,” Sheila said. “Is that right?”

Ben and Craig nodded, their eyes now lowered. Mrs. Barksdale and Mrs. Grant each gathered her own charge into her arms.

“I thought I’d broken the cycle.” Anthony Barksdale put his hand on Ben’s shoulder before turning to Hutch, Sheila and Starsky. “I was abused by my father and promised myself I’d never treat a child of my own like that.” He glanced at his wife and must have found the strength he needed because he took a breath and continued. “I read everything available at the time - which wasn’t much - and gave Roman all the unconditional love I could. I thought I’d succeeded… until, when Ben was four or so, I began to see the same signs in my son that my father had exhibited. Plus, I recognized my own protective mannerisms in Ben.”

“Why didn’t you say something,” Sheila asked.

“I was terrified,” Barksdale admitted. “I was afraid that, if I did, Roman would go to jail.” He stared at Sheila. “Child abuse didn’t get mentioned on the news or in the press very often but I couldn’t take the chance. I guess I hoped he’d stop on his own. As my father eventually did.”

“With me…” Will said, and everyone’s attention turned to him. “With me,” he repeated, “it wasn’t beatings.”

When he didn’t continue, Starsky prodded gently. “It was sexual abuse, wasn’t it?”

Will shuddered and his hands fell to his lap, probably instinctively protecting his privates, but his gaze circled the table without apology. “My mother was obsessed with my equipment. She told me from the day I was born, I had the most impressive family jewels she’d ever seen. And the older I got, the more she couldn’t keep her hands off me.”

Hutch caught William’s eyes. “Your sister told Starsky and me that your dad knew.”

Will’s face flushed. “Yeah. He knew. And the only thing he ever said to me about it was ‘make her stop’.” He shrugged. “I tried locking the bathroom door but she had a key. I tried fighting her but she’d go down on me and my body’d betray me.” A sob broke from him and he laid his forehead on the table.

Sheila jumped up, moved to him, knelt, and put her arms around him. “You’re not alone any more, Will.”

Twenty-year-old William Johnston sobbed on her shoulder.

While Sheila helped William get his control back, Hutch looked at Ben and Craig. “Is either of you still in scouting?”

Ben looked at Craig and they both shook their heads. Ben turned back to Hutch. “I quit when my sister and I went to live with Grandma and Gramps. They said I could join another troop but I only trusted Mr. Gillespie.”

Craig nodded. “Same here.” 

Sheila stood up, keeping her hand on William’s shoulder. “Mr. and Mrs. Barksdale, Mrs. Grant, I have cards in my office that I’ll be happy to give you. There is excellent help available in this city for Ben and Craig, if you, and they, would like to make use of it.” The three adults glanced at each other before nodding at Sheila. “Good.” She looked at William as he stood. “William?”

After a moment, he shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ll be okay now. All I wanted was for someone to believe me.”

“Your sister did,” Starsky said.

William Johnston finally smiled.

*******

The warrant for Nolan Gillespie’s arrest was obtained with the help of Detective Peterson. She knew a few judges who understood the brutality her team of over-worked detectives was fighting. Gillespie’s location was easily determined since he was listed in the phone book. 

Starsky looked around the well-trimmed hedge and the immaculately kept lawn as he walked beside Hutch toward the front door. “If this guy’s been killing abusive parents, do we arrest him? Or give him a medal?”

“I don’t know, Starsk.” Hutch was having difficulty coming to terms with the whole situation, himself.

“I mean, part of me wants to pound him into the ground.” Starsky’s expression was grim, probably because of all the adults they now believed Gillespie had terminated. Then his shoulders slumped and he raised his hands in a gesture of futility. “Another part of me wants to say, thanks, fella!” He turned to Hutch, confusion reigning. “Know what I mean?”

“I sure do.” Hutch pulled out his I.D. wallet while Starsky knocked.

When Gillespie opened the door, he was dressed in a perfectly creased scout uniform. A sash, covered from shoulder to waist with badges, crossed his slightly sunken chest. Of medium height and weight, with dull brown hair and eyes, Hutch understood why Monica used the word she did.

Starsky half turned toward Hutch and kept his voice down. “Nebbish is right. Sure doesn’t look like any serial killer I’ve ever heard about.” 

Gillespie pushed the screen door open in response to their displayed I.D.s. “I hope this won’t take too long, officers, I have a meeting this evening.”

“We have a warrant for your arrest.” Starsky, obviously having overcome his reluctance, waved the official paper and moved past Gillespie into the small, unassuming house. He turned, waiting for the troop leader’s reaction.

Gillespie’s shoulders slumped and he shuffled through an archway into a tiny living room; Hutch followed.

“I suppose I’ve known this would happen, sooner or later.” Gillespie sat on the sofa in front of the window. 

Starsky glanced at Hutch and they silently agreed that Starsky would search the house while Hutch stayed with Gillespie. Hutch sat in an arm chair, in position to thwart any escape attempt. Neither he nor Gillespie said a word until Starsky returned, stood next to Hutch’s chair and stared at the suspect. His tone was softer than Hutch expected. “You know why we’re here, sir? Why we have the warrant?”

The troop leader nodded. “I assume it’s because you’ve discovered that I’ve been killing people who needed killing.”

“Ben Barksdale’s, Craig McKinney’s, and William Johnston’s parents, to be specific?” Starsky’s tone was angry by the time he finished and Hutch stroked his partner’s back gently. 

“Yes,” Gillespie admitted. “All those, plus a number of others.”

That took both Hutch and Starsky by surprise. Hutch dug out his pad of paper and a pencil. “Who else?”

Gillespie thought for a moment. “It began with my parents, of course.”

Starsky darted a look at Hutch who nodded his agreement. Starsky moved to the couch, pulled the scout leader to his feet, turned him around and cuffed him, searching him quickly afterward.

Hutch put his notes away and rose. “I think we’d better take this downtown, Mr. Gillespie.”

“Wait!” Gillespie refused to move. “You have to give me a few days. I need to finish my most important job first.”

Starsky’s expression darkened. “What job would that be?”

“Cary and Gary Hartfield, twin boys.” Gillespie’s expression was truly anguished. “Every time they come to a meeting they have fresh bruises. Even whip marks! Their parents are the worst I’ve ever encountered. They have to be stopped. I have to save those boys!”

“You’ll need to let us take care of that, Mr. Gillespie.” Hutch reached for the man’s elbow.

The scout leader resisted. “But, _will_ you?”

“Oh, yeah.” Starsky took the other arm. “Hutch and I hate child molesters as much as you do. Maybe even more!”

“You promise?” Gillespie’s voice was almost a whine.

“Yes, sir. We promise.” Hutch opened the door.

“Please…” Gillespie stopped again and gestured toward the kitchen. “There’s a number on the corkboard next to the phone. Call Mr. Parsons and tell him I won’t be able to make tonight’s meeting.”

*******

Dobey was nearly speechless this time. “How many? In how many states?”

Hutch was sitting in his usual guest chair, sharing a cup of water with Starsky, who was in the chair next to him. “His parents in Massachusetts, and five other sets, three in Pennsylvania, and two in Missouri.”

“His father abused him,” Starsky went on, “so Gillespie knew what to look for in his scouts.”

“But… why…” Dobey sputtered. “I don’t understand why he’d kill both parents, leaving the children alone?”

Starsky shrugged. “He said there was no way Jane Barksdale, Stephanie McKinney or Tyler Johnston didn’t know what was going on. They went along with their spouse’s behavior by not reporting it and getting the child away from the situation. According to Gillespie, they were just as guilty and deserved to die, too!” 

“And all the others?” Dobey demanded. “He took out the spouses because they were complicit?”

“That was his explanation,” Starsky replied.

“We’ve got a real problem, though, Captain,” Hutch added.

Dobey did not look happy with that statement.

Starsky finished the cup of water, got up and drew another before sitting back down. “Gillespie told us he was nearly ready to take down the worst pair he’s ever encountered.”

“Parents of twin boys,” Hutch said. “Gillespie told us they come to meetings covered in bruises and whip marks even their uniforms couldn’t hide.”

“Why in the world would parents like that allow the boys to become scouts?” Dobey was clearly confused. “Wouldn’t they have to know someone would figure out what was going on?”

“We asked him that, sir,” Starsky replied. “He said the mother’s father had insisted they be allowed to join - paid for their uniforms and anything else they needed. He’d been a scout himself and wanted his grandsons to have the experience.” Starsky drank some of the water and passed the cup to Hutch. “The grandfather lives out of state, though, and hasn’t seen the boys in years.”

Hutch continued the thread. “Gillespie told us that, according to the twins, their parents had been trying to back off on the abuse but they’re both apparently addicted to the power.”

Dobey stood up. “We can’t get an arrest warrant based on Gillespie’s word, alone. You know that, right? Not even Detective Peterson’s tame judges would agree there was sufficient cause.”

“Yes, sir.” Hutch finished the water, crumpled the cup, and stood up. “But, if Starsky and I go over there, talk to them, check things out, we may uncover enough to get that warrant.”

Starsky stood as well. “If not, Hutch and I’ll keep our eyes on ‘em until we do find something.”

Dobey glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s too late tonight. But, when you go in the morning, take back up!” 

“Good idea.” Starsky headed for the squad room door. “Gillespie did warn us to watch out for the mother.”

Dobey lurched to his feet. “You’ll wear vests then, too!”

“Aw, Cap’n --”

“Don’t you ‘Aw, Cap’n’ me, Starsky!” Dobey bellowed. “I don’t ever want to have to sit in an E.R. waiting room for you two again!”

*******

“Hutch…”

“Hmmmmmmmm?” Hutch knew his tension must be showing because his partner was trying to smooth the vertical crevice between his eyebrows.

“Why do parents beat… and sexually abuse their kids?” Starsky’s tone was confused, plaintive and angry, all at the same time.

Hutch sat up against the headboard and pulled the lithe, muscular, willing body into his arms. “I have no idea, Starsk.”

Starsky looked up at him, the deep blue eyes offering consolation and unquestioning support, if needed. “Did you folks ever hit you?”

Hutch almost smiled. “No. Their abuse was much more subtle.”

Starsky cuddled closer. “How.”

Hutch didn’t really want to talk about it but these cases had opened wounds he’d thought were scabbed over and Starsky deserved to know. “My father, especially, never had a kind word to say to me. He belittled my few accomplishments, demeaned and undercut my self-confidence at every opportunity. Mom was less dismissive and curt but she didn’t contradict him or give me any reason to think she was pleased with anything I ever did.”

“But…” Starsky sat up and drilled Hutch with incredulity. “I’ve seen your trophies! You were a track star! You were the captain of your high school’s championship soccer and lacrosse teams! How could they not have been proud of you?”

Hutch hated the shrug but he couldn’t stop the emotional gesture. “They never saw me. Both of them were always too busy to come to an event.”

“What about your scholastic achievements! You were valedictorian!”

Hutch smiled slightly in memory. “My sister beat me to that distinction, two years earlier. It was expected of me and, therefore, unworthy of comment or praise.”

Starsky fell against Hutch’s chest and strong arms held him tightly. “Let’s never go back to Duluth. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to keep from telling your parents what I think of them.”

Hutch kissed the chocolate curls. “Deal. We’ll take all our vacations in New York from now on.”

*******

Starsky parked the Torino at the curb across the street from Joseph and Grace Hartfield’s address. A black and white pulled up behind.

In the driveway of the suspects’ house, a tall, heavy-set man was loading landscaping equipment into the back of an old pickup. When he noticed the two cars, he dropped a handful of rakes and sprinted around the truck, running toward the back of the house.

Starsky jumped out, hollering toward the disappearing figure. “Police, Mr. Hartfield. We need to talk to you!” 

Hutch dashed after the father, hearing Starsky tell the uniforms to “Cover the front. Nobody leaves!”

Hutch knew Starsky was right behind him as he pushed through the side gate and saw the man he assumed was Joseph Hartfield coming out of a storage shed holding a rifle. In full stride, Hutch crossed the narrow yard and tackled the guy. 

Starsky skidded to a stop at his shoulder and Hutch was glad to see his partner snatch the weapon from the man’s hands and toss it aside. Starsky’s handcuffs were suddenly dangling in front of Hutch’s face and he smiled his gratitude. He managed to get the thrashing man onto his stomach and snap the cuffs onto his wrists. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?” Hartfield snarled. “Get offa me! Take these fuckin’ things off! I’m gonna sue your asses from here to next Wednesday!”

Hutch stood up and hauled the suspect to his feet. “My partner identified us as police, Mr. Hartfield. Why did you run?”

“I’m not talkin’ t’ you!” Hartfield tried to turn but Hutch kept him in place. “I want a goddamn lawyer!”

Starsky holstered his weapon - the look on his face was definitely prideful. “Nice open field tackle, Hutch.” 

Pushing Hartfield against the shed wall, Hutch had just begun the pat-down when he heard what was probably the house’ back door slam open. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a woman run down the porch stairs, a double-barrel shotgun clutched to her side, the yawning muzzles pointed in his and Starsky’s direction.

Before Hutch could form a single conscious thought, what felt like a freight train slammed into his back. He was flung forward into Hartfield and both heavily impacted the shed wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Hutch saw Starsky redraw the Beretta and face the woman.

In the millisecond it took his partner to drop into his shooter’s stance and yell, “Put it down!” she pulled the second trigger.

Starsky was thrown backward. He slid down the wall to sit on the ground next to Hartfield, who was on his stomach, struggling against his restraints. “Find the keys, Grace,” he screamed. “Get me outta these goddamn cuffs!”

Hutch, ignoring the pain radiating from between his shoulder blades, rolled over, sat up and drew his Magnum, trying to clear his head and focus on the woman only a few feet in front of him. As if in a slow-motion dream, he began to raise the .357 while watching her expertly break open the breech of the shotgun, extract and discard two shells, remove two new ones from her apron pocket, drop them in place and snap the weapon closed. As she clutched it again to her waist, the uniformed officers ran through the gate behind her.

“Police,” the lead patrolman yelled. “Don’t move!”

Hutch attempted to shout but Grace Hartfield’s attention was already on the new threat. She spun and pulled a trigger. The officer went down.

“Drop it!” screamed the second uniform, his service revolver up and aimed.

Grace, however, was undeniably bent on destruction and swung the weapon toward the only man in the yard still on his feet. A bullet caught her in the chest before she could complete her fourth attempted murder and she went down, the shotgun flying out of her hands.

Between one ragged breath and the next, Starsky was at Hutch’s side. “You okay?”

Hutch had to make do with a nod; he still couldn’t draw sufficient air to speak. He had to be content to watch as Starsky holstered the Beretta and walked to Mrs. Hartfield. Bending down, obviously in some pain, he picked up the shotgun and carried it to where the second officer was standing. The young man’s pallor made it look like he was about to pass out. 

Sirens were approaching but Starsky and the uniform were close enough for Hutch to hear every word.

Starsky put a hand on the officer’s upper arm. “Call for help. It sounds like somebody already has but we’ll need more.”

When the officer looked at his fallen partner, Starsky jostled his arm. “I’ll take care of him. He’s wearing a vest, just like we are, he’ll be okay.” He handed the shaken uniform the shotgun and nudged him toward the gate. “Go on.”

As the order was obeyed, Starsky squatted next to the partner, who was trying to sit up. He was clearly in pain but the vest had done its job. “You’ll hurt some, Officer Riley,” Starsky said, only a little irony in his voice, “but you’ll live.”

Riley nodded toward the prone woman. “What about her?”

Starsky glanced over. “Personally, I hope your partner killed her but it’ll be tough on him if he did.”

“He’ll get through it.” Riley sounded certain. “She’d already tried to kill both of you, and me. He told her to drop the weapon, I heard him. It was the most righteous shoot I’ve ever seen.”

“I agree. Hutch and I’ll swear to that.” Starsky carefully stood up. “He’ll need your help though.”

“He’ll have it.” With Starsky’s assistance, Riley got to his feet. “Greg’s everything I ever hoped for in a partner and I want to keep him.”

“See that you do then.” Starsky patted Riley on the arm. “Good partners don’t grow on trees.”

Starsky barely glanced at Mrs. Hartfield as he walked back to Hutch and knelt beside him. “Felt like a slug to me, not pellets.”

It did to Hutch, too. “Where’d she get you?”

Starsky raised his shirt and t-shirt. A single, deformed piece of lead was embedded in the vest just above the bottom edge.”

Hutch couldn’t keep his hand from reaching forward and touching the nearly-lethal chunk of metal. He met Starsky’s eyes and no words were needed.

*******

Dobey glowered but Hutch could tell it was mostly for show. He was seated behind his desk, his hands clasped on top of the open file folder in front of him. 

Hutch was in his usual guest chair with Starsky, cup of water in hand, in the second. Starsky raised the cup toward their captain. “Darn good thing you insisted on the vests, Cap’n.”

Dobey nodded with satisfaction. “Yes, it is. And I expect you to remember that the next time I tell you to do something.”

Starsky smiled, drank some water and passed the cup to Hutch. Hutch saluted Dobey, too, before taking a swallow. “Yes, sir.”

Dobey sat back in his chair. “Except for the fact that you both could have been killed… again…” A small smile creased his face. “I’m pretty happy. While you were getting your x-rays and being dressed down by your doctors for showing up with more bodily trauma, Sheila Peterson and I toured the Hartfield house.”

Starsky took the cup from Hutch and went for a refill. “And?” He came back and handed the water to Hutch.

Dobey’s face lost all its cheer. “It’s no wonder the neighbors never heard the twins scream. The basement was totally sound-proofed.” He sent Hutch, then Starsky, a serious look. “They’d have killed those boys, eventually, Sheila said. So it’s a good thing you stopped them when you did.”

“How’s the mother?” Starsky asked.

“Dead.” Dobey’s voice held no sorrow. “The husband’s claiming brutality but the next door neighbors saw the whole thing from their kitchen window. They corroborate your statements and those of the other two officers.”

Hutch drank half the contents of the cup and passed it to Starsky. “That’s good.”

“Yes, it is,” Dobey agreed. “Now, I know those bruises are going to hurt for the next few days so I’m telling you to get out of here! Take tomorrow and the weekend off, too! You can bring Sheila’s detectives up to date on the whole case Monday morning.”

Starsky finished the water, crushed the cup and tossed it in the round file as he got up, wincing only slightly. Hutch allowed his partner to pull him to his feet; the topical spray they’d used at the hospital had worn off and he was ready for one of the pain pills they’d been given. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Yeah, Cap,” Starsky added. “Thanks!”

*******

On the way to Venice Place, Hutch had an idea. “Pull into the next Seven-Eleven, Starsk.”

Starsky shot him a look. “Oooo-kay.”

Hutch put what he hoped was an unreadable expression on his face. “I know you’re hurting, babe. So am I. And I read something recently that’s given me an idea.”

Starsky’s skepticism was showing but he drove into the parking lot of the very next convenience store they came to. Turning off the engine, he gave Hutch his most curious look. “Need any help in there?”

“No, thanks.” Gingerly, Hutch climbed out of the car, went inside and came back out after only a couple of minutes, carrying a large brown paper bag. He gave no explanation as he settled into the passenger’s seat, stowing the parcel between his feet. “Home, James.”

Starsky snorted but drove silently to Venice Place.

Once inside with the front door locked, Hutch crossed the room and placed the bag on the kitchen counter. When he turned, Starsky was right behind him and Hutch raised his index finger menacingly. “No peeking!”

Starsky scowled and Hutch moved in for a kiss. The after-the-adrenaline-rush passion they always experienced in the aftermath of a take-down kicked in immediately and they flung their arms around each other. Searing pain from the bruises, however, made them jump apart.

“Ouch,” Starsky muttered. He laid his hand lightly against his belly. “You never said anything, Hutch! Why didn’t you tell me how much it hurts?”

“Telling you would have made it worse, Starsk. Besides, I didn’t really have time to think about it while we were trying to rescue Joanna. Then, after we got her home to her parents, we were too busy with everything else.”

“Well…” Starsky grumped, “you shoulda told me.”

Hutch grabbed Starsky’s hand and headed toward the bathroom. “Let’s get whatever they sprayed on us washed off, then we’ll try my idea.”

Showering was limited to very gentle soaping and rinsing and soon Starsky was prone, naked, on the big brass bed. 

Hutch stood at the side, staring at the huge, ugly mark just below his partner’s sternum. “They need to start making those vests longer.”

Starsky raised his head and looked at the bruise that was darkening even as they watched. Starsky’s head flopped back onto the pillow. “Good thing she wasn’t usin’ shot. The lower part of the spread would’ve found my gut.”

Hutch sucked in a breath at that thought, and blew it out, forcefully. “Well, lucky for both of us, she wasn’t!” He grabbed his robe off the foot of the bed and headed for the kitchen. “Be right back!”

He knew he was driving Starsky crazy with the noises he was making but he thought he’d be forgiven, soon. Heating some water in his double-boiler, he unwrapped two of his purchases and placed them in the top part. As soon as they showed the first sign of melting, he turned off the heat; he didn’t want to burn his lover.

Taking the upper pot and a big spatula into the sleeping alcove, he sat down on the edge of the bed next to Starsky’s hip. Starsky’s curiosity meter was pegged and he raised his head, trying to look inside the pan. Hutch held it away. “Nuh uh. No peeking.”

Starsky slumped back. “You’re just plain mean sometimes.”

“Close your eyes.”

With one you’ll-pay-for-this glare, Starsky did as instructed.

Hutch scooped up the warmth and spread if gently across the salad-plate-size discoloration.

Starsky gasped and his eyes flew open. Gazing at what Hutch was doing, his face broke into a dazzling smile. “I _thought_ I smelled chocolate!”

Hutch knew his answering smile was a little too conceited but he didn’t care. It was the unadulterated pleasure on Starsky’s face he soaked up like a sponge. “Hershey Bars. The article I read claimed they have healing powers when melted and spread on bruises.”

Starsky raised his head again and watched Hutch work. “Smells good but… feels weird.”

“Well…” Hutch put the pan and utensil on the night stand. Then, bending over Starsky’s midsection, he began to lick.

“Oh! Oh, oh, ohhhhhhh.” Starsky fell back. “I hope you bought more of those!”

Hutch chuckled.

*******

Melted chocolate might not be on any physician’s approved list of beneficial salves but Hutch’s back felt better that night than he thought he had a right to expect. Starsky’s talented tongue licking at the edges of pain, while his equally talented hands massaged Hutch’s butt cheeks, had Hutch indecisive about whether he wanted to fall asleep or fuck his partner’s brains out. 

Starsky’s murmurings and increasingly inquisitive fingers convinced Hutch which choice he’d insist on. 

*******

Sheila called Friday morning. “That’s not exactly the way we like to see abuse cases closed but you guys did great!”

Hutch held the phone so that Starsky could hear, too. “Thanks, Sheila.”

“How are the bruises?” she asked.

Starsky appropriated the mouthpiece. “Gettin’ better all the time. Hutch has discovered a really different kind of treatment.”

Hutch took the phone back. “Uh, well… maybe we’ll tell you about it. Sometime.”

She laughed. “Considering what you guys come up with, I can’t wait. See you Monday!”

Hutch hung up as Starsky hurried back to the kitchen, unwrapped two more bars and dropped them into the pan. 

*******

After meeting with Sheila and a pair of her detectives on Monday morning, Hutch started typing his own report on the complicated cases. Starsky had drawn the short straw and began the laborious task of getting those of Jane Barksdale, Stephanie McKinney, and Tyler Johnston officially changed from ‘accidents’ and ‘suicide,’ respectively, to ‘murder,’ and then closed, again. 

Listening to his partner mutter, mumble and occasionally curse, Hutch took a break and called Marybeth Connors.

“This is Detective Hutchinson, Mrs. Conners. My partner and I have taken over the investigation into your husband’s death and would like to come and talk with you about it.”

Hutch punched on the speaker so that Starsky could hear. Her projected voice sounded tired. “I’ve been praying someone would take another look. I know Sgt. Matthews and his partner did their best but I hope you can find something they didn’t. When can you come?”

“Whenever’s convenient for you, ma’am.”

“How about this afternoon, but before Gretchen gets home? I don’t want her involved, if I can help it. I have a meeting at ten and a luncheon afterward but I should be home by two. Would that be okay with you?”

“That’ll be fine, Mrs. Connors,” Hutch told her. “We’ll see you then.”

*******

The high-rise Marybeth Connors, her daughter, and housemate lived in was luxurious enough to have a doorman. He eyed the Torino with evident appreciation.

Hutch displayed his I.D. “We’ll be talking with Mrs. Connors. Eleven-oh-two.”

The doorman’s professional courteous expression turned to anticipation. “Something new on her husband’s murder, then?”

Starsky joined Hutch and the doorman. “Not yet, but we’re working on it.”

That solicited a nod and a brief smile. “Good. He was a very nice man. And they seemed truly happy together. I’ve hardly seen her smile since he died and that ain’t right.”

Starsky gestured to the Torino. “Okay if my car stays there? We never know when we’ll have to leave in a hurry.”

“I don’t usually allow visitors to park in the lane but seeing as how you’ll be helping Mrs. Conners… sure!”

Starsky patted the man on the arm and Hutch held the door for him. The elevator arrived almost immediately and they got aboard. When the doors opened again on eleven, they turned in unison to the left, in response to the numbered arrows on the wall.

Marybeth Connors answered the door chimes and, after glancing at their credentials, led them into a spacious living room. She was thirty-two and, to Hutch, it appeared as if the years since her husband’s death had not been kind: brown hair was dull, not very flatteringly cut, and had begun to show a little gray; blue eyes were lusterless. The tailored business suit, silk blouse and low-heeled shoes she’d apparently worn to the meeting and luncheon were of the latest fashion but it didn’t look as if she cared. She carried herself like a much older, spiritless woman and it made Hutch sad.

She gestured them to seats on the huge sectional sofa and took the matching chair across from them. “May I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” Starsky said. “We just had lunch.”

She put her elbows on her knees and laced her fingers. “I assume you’ve read the file, and you know I keep calling. What more can I tell you that will help you find Steve’s killer?”

Starsky took a large envelope out of his jacket pocket and removed a sheaf of papers. “These are copies of the letters that were found in your husband’s dresser, Mrs. Connors.”

After a few moments, she reached for them. “I’m sure I read them at the time but they didn’t mean anything to me.”

“Would you read through them again, please?” Hutch made sure his tone was persuasive, not coercive. “Does any of the phrasing seem familiar? Do you recognize the handwriting?”

She slid the pages out of the envelope and began to read. Soon, tears slid down her cheeks. “I still don’t understand. He’d never have betrayed me - much less with someone who could write smut like this. It’s obscene!”

The front door opened and a voice called, “Are you back yet, Marybeth?” Mrs. Connors jumped and the papers slid to the floor.

A woman Hutch knew had to be Charlotte Carson walked into the room’s archway carrying two loaded shopping bags. 

Starsky got up, walked over and took one. “You must be Ms. Carson. My name’s Starsky. I’m a detective with Metro Division. My partner and I are continuing the investigation into Mr. Connors’ death.”

“Oh.” Charlotte’s reaction was anything but pleasure. “Why can’t you guys leave her alone? She’s been through enough!”

Marybeth gathered up the letters and put them on the coffee table. She and Hutch joined the pair still standing in the entryway. “Charlotte, these are Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson. Detectives, this is Charlotte Carson, my dearest friend and housemate.”

Charlotte walked to the breakfast counter that divided the living area from the expansive kitchen and put her grocery bag down before she turned and took the second one from Starsky. “Thank you.” Without another word, she turned her back and began to unpack her purchases and put them away in cabinets and the refrigerator.

Starsky caught Hutch’s eye and shrugged. They moved back into the living room with Marybeth and sat down. She picked up the letters again before she looked at Hutch, then Starsky. “Have you read these?” When they both nodded, she went on. “I know I must have, too, but the wording didn’t register, I guess. Reading them now, they seem… I don’t know… phony. Unreal. I mean, no one talks like this, do they? Such flowery sentences, gushingly romantic phrases? It’s as if a teenager was told to write love letters before she’d ever been in love.”

Hutch exchanged a charged look with Starsky. “That’s what we thought, Mrs. Connors. Is the handwriting familiar?”

“I don’t know… it seems to be but…”

Hutch realized, a split second before things happened, that he and Starsky had made a mistake. Even though they’d both had their suspicions about Charlotte Carson, they’d been focused on Marybeth and the letters.

Charlotte came tearing out of the kitchen with a knife raised above her head, an inarticulate scream in her throat. She lunged at Starsky, who was nearer, and it took all his lightning-fast reactions to get his hands up in time to grab her wrist. 

Marybeth must have caught the motions out of the corner of her eye because her shriek overlapped Charlotte’s scream. She lurched to her feet and turned to her red-faced friend and the officer who was straining to keep the point of a very sharp knife away from his face.

Hutch took two long strides to Charlotte’s side while he drew his Magnum. She was apparently so intent on doing harm to Starsky, she didn’t see Hutch coming. When the Python’s muzzle contacted her temple, she froze.

Gingerly, Starsky took the knife from her and gave it to Hutch. He spun Charlotte around by the wrist he still held and cuffed her hands behind her back. “Ms. Carson, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of a police officer. Plus other charges we’ll undoubtedly be adding. I’ll finish stating your Miranda rights as soon as backup gets here.”

When he turned her around, Marybeth was suddenly next to them, her eyes blazing. She held up the letters. “You wrote these! Didn’t you?”

Charlotte tried defiance. “So what if I did?”

“You killed Steve?” When Charlotte didn’t answer, Marybeth lost all her composure. “ _Why_?”

Charlotte attempted to back away but Starsky held her firmly in place. “He wasn’t a decent husband or father!” she declared. “He was never here! Gretchen’s _my_ daughter now!”

“I loved him!” Marybeth could barely get the words out.

Charlotte looked beseechingly at Starsky, then Hutch. “He had the life I wanted! I took it!”

Hutch holstered his gun before exchanging a long, sad look with his partner. Blood was trickling from a small cut at the edge of Starsky’s left eye. 

*******

When they finally got home that night, Hutch made Starsky sit on the john in the bathroom while he carefully peeled off the Band-aid Starsky had stuck over the cut in the men’s room at Metro. Starsky winced but didn’t speak. Hutch cleaned off the blood Starsky hadn’t bothered with and applied a fresh butterfly bandage. “I don’t think it needs stitches.”

Starsky tried to get up. “Told ya.” 

Hutch put his hands on his partner’s shoulders and held him down. The look they shared was soul searing to begin with but ended up shoring up their deep, committed love.

A glint appeared in the indigo eyes and the lips curved into a smile. “Aren’t we glad we’re Lieutenants now, Hutch? No more dangerous street people to deal with? Nobody shooting at us or trying to stab us to death?”

Hutch tried not to laugh but the smirky, satisfied expression on his partner’s only-slightly-damaged face broke him up. The joy and relief bubbled up and the chuckle he couldn’t smother turned into side-splitting guffaws.

Starsky joined in and, soon, they were sitting on the floor with Starsky leaning against the tub, Hutch cradled in his arms, both weak from released tension and happiness.

Hutch sobered and sat up. “Think Dobey’ll make us start giving these cases to other detectives?”

“Over my dead body!” Starsky bolted to his feet and out the door.

More slowly, Hutch stood up and walked out to the living room. Starsky was at the entrance to the greenhouse. When Hutch didn’t approach, his partner turned around, his face rigid with determination. “We both worked damn hard for these bars, Hutch! We’re going to close our own cases, not give ‘em to somebody else!”

Hutch walked over and, mindful of their still-painful bruises, put his arms around his lover, nuzzling kisses under Starsky’s left ear. “Just asking.” 

*******

A week later, as Hutch pulled yet another unsolved murder file from the stack on his desk, the door behind Starsky opened and a face they hadn’t seen in several years looked in. “Sergeant Ronson, downstairs, said it was okay to come up.”

Starsky glanced over his shoulder before sending Hutch a guarded look. He got to his feet, turned and extended his hand. “‘Course it is, Mr. Whitelaw. State senators are always welcome!”

Hutch had gotten to his feet by this time and approached the pair, his hand out. Peter Whitelaw shook it. “What brings you down from Sacramento, Senator?” He pulled the room’s third chair off the wall. “Have a seat.”

Peter Whitelaw, still tall, lean, mustached, and handsome, sat. “I’m just Peter when I’m among friends, Detectives.”

Hutch saw acceptance in his partner’s eyes and nodded. “Then we’re Ken and Dave.” He and Starsky dropped into their own chairs. 

Whitelaw stared at the stacks of folders. “I hear you’re looking into cold case murders.”

Starsky laid a hand on top of one of the piles. “We’re trying.” 

Peter smiled and it took the worry out of his face. “From what I hear, you’ve already done excellent work.”

Hutch felt heat creeping up his neck and passed off the compliment. “We’ve been lucky.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Peter conceded, “but if you and Dave weren’t damn good at your job, luck would never be able to play a part.”

“Thanks,” Starsky said, fighting his own blush. “What brings you here, though? Not re-election time. Is it?”

Whitelaw laughed. “Not for another couple of years, thankfully.” His expression grew suddenly serious and he gestured to the stacks again. “There was a patrol officer named Norman Ainsley that John had his eye on. John thought the kid was confused about his sexuality and might possibly get killed if one of the more rabidly anti-gay members of the department decided to hang him out to dry on a bust.”

“And he’s in our folders?” Hutch asked.

“Probably,” Peter replied. “He was killed one night outside his apartment, May of ‘75, I think. It didn’t appear to be related to the job but no clues, witnesses or suspects turned up a reason for the murder. John took over the investigation, after it had gone nowhere for a while, and really worked it but he never found the perp.”

Starsky’s face took on grim determination. “We’ll look into it.”

Hutch cocked his head toward their Mr. Coffee. “Would you like a cup of fairly fresh mud?”

“Oh, no thanks. I really only came by to ask you to take a look at the Ainsley killing.” Whitelaw suddenly appeared uncertain of his next words when he caught Hutch’s, then Starsky’s eyes. “Are you two together yet?”

Hutch felt a surge of ice through his veins and could see the question had caught Starsky unprepared, too. 

Whitelaw held up his hand in a placating motion. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll never say a word.” He seemed to collect his thoughts without looking at either of them. “I only know I’d give anything if I could have John back in my life.” He looked up and met their gazes. “I’ll never find another friend and lover like him. If you care about each other, and I believe you do, don’t allow anyone or anything to keep you apart.”

Peter Whitelaw got up and walked out. 

*******

Hutch held Starsky in his arms that night, not sure if his partner was sleepy or preoccupied. “Whatcha thinking so hard about, Starsk?”

Starsky snuggled closer. “How come we didn’t realize we’re the same as John Blaine?”

“I don’t think we are.”

Starsky leaned up on an elbow, his expression confused. “What do you mean?” 

Hutch drew him back and enfolded him again. “Maybe John did love Peter, but Peter wasn’t his only male lover. He’d broken up with Whitelaw quite a while before he died in that St. Francis Hotel room. He must have gone there often, with other men. He had to have known, when he took that hustler there, what would have happened.”

“If he hadn’t been too drunk and hadn’t passed out.”

Hutch ruffled the curly hair. “We’re exclusive, Starsk. We love each other, and only each other. I don’t know what that makes us but we’re not like John.”

“Why did Peter say what he did? How does he know about us?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there’s a sense. We’ve looked at guys and figured they were gay, remember?”

“I don’t look at guys, Blondie. I’ve only got eyes for you!”

“Flatterer.”

Starsky rolled over and pulled Hutch onto his chest. “Make love to me, Hutch. Make me forget we live in a world that would tear us apart if they ever found out we’re together.”

Hutch caressed and soothed, lubed them both up and sank into the most conflicted, consuming, all-encompassing soul he’d ever known. As he stroked, he couldn’t stop murmuring. “Love you, Starsk. Never leave you. Want to be with you, and only you, for the rest of my life.”

“Our lives, Hutch.” Starsky hooked his heels behind Hutch’s back and pulled him deeper. “Together. Always.”

Hutch stopped moving and gazed into the cobalt eyes that had captured him when they’d first met. “We’re so fortunate, my love.”

“You bet! Like you said earlier today, we’re lucky!”

“Not just lucky.” Hutch returned to his slow, strong stroking and Starsky purred. “We treasure each other.”

“‘Cherish is the word that more than applies…’”

Hutch smiled and kissed the offered lips, moving carefully, but forcefully. “Leave it to you to come up with the perfect song title.”

“Only the title’s appropriate, babe. The rest of the lyrics don’t fit at all, ‘cause you _are_ the one to share my dreams, my schemes, my life!”

“I usually forget how much of a romantic you are but then you come up with thoughts like that. We’ll have to turn you loose with a pen and some scoring sheets. Bet we’ll make a composer out of you!”

“Nope, that’s your forte, Hutch. You’re the singer and song writer.”

“Well, shut up, then, and tell me what you want?”

“You. Right where you are. Inside me. Around me. With me.”

“Forever.”

*******

The next day they dug out the Ainsley case and put it under a microscope.

“He was going to be a good cop, Starsk. All the indications are here.”

Starsky nodded. “His Training Officer had nothing but praise for his street skills. Ainsley knew when to be harsh with a suspect and then how to tone it down with a victim.”

Hutch skimmed through his half of the pages. “Wonder what John saw that made him think Ainsley might have problems with the anti-gay segment of the department.”

Starsky shrugged and continued reading his portion of the file. “Maybe it’s what you said and John had a sixth sense.”

Hutch turned over the final page. “Have you found anything we can dig into?”

Starsky looked up. “There’s a note in here that says Ainsley had a sweet tooth.” He passed the page across to Hutch. “According to his T.O., he asked to stop at a bakery on their beat every morning. Ainsley was addicted to their bear claws.”

Hutch scanned the page. “‘Rise an’ Shine Bakery’ on Addison.” He turned back to the front page, unclipped the head shot of Norman Ainsley in uniform, and slipped it in his shirt pocket. Pushing his chair back, he grabbed his jacket. “Let’s go see if anyone there remembers Norman.”

*******

Hutch knew the Sweet Young Thing behind the counter couldn’t possibly have been working there in ’75 but that didn’t keep Starsky from putting on his best congenial smile. “Hi, there.”

Hutch thought she might be working her way through grade school but then, as he got older, it seemed everyone else was getting younger. He showed her his shield and I.D. swallowing a sigh. “We’re police officers, Miss…” he checked her name tag. “Missy.” He sighed again.

She studied the credential and then each of their faces. “How can I help you? Our jelly-filled are fresh out of the oven.”

Starsky’s face lit up. “We’ll take half a dozen o’ those!” He pulled out his wallet.

Hutch sighed once again, produced the picture of Ainsley and showed it to her. “You’re probably too young to remember this man but is there anyone around who was working here in ‘75?”

She was bagging Starsky’s donuts but did glance carefully at the photo. As she took Starsky’s money, rang up the sale and gave him the bag and his change, she shook her head. “I’ve never seen him. But Mr. Bryson might know him. He’s owned the place since before then. Hold on a minute.”

Missy went through swinging double doors and came back with a tall, older, balding, but reasonably fit looking man. “This is the owner, Mr. Bryson.” She moved off to help another customer.

The baker’s expression and body language told Hutch he was wary so Hutch put on his non-threatening persona and held out his hand. “Detectives Hutchinson and Starsky.”

Bryson dusted off his flour-covered hands and shook each of theirs. “Missy tells me you’re asking if a particular young man ever came in here.”

Starsky was already half way through his first pastry. “That’s right, sir.” He stuffed the rest into his mouth, grabbed a few napkins and wiped jelly off his chin. “These are really great, Mr. Bryson!”

The baker’s scowl softened. “Thank you. I come in at three a.m. every morning to make sure all my customers have fresh goods. Can’t ever be complacent.”

Starsky took another donut and offered the bag to Hutch. Hoping to allay the owner’s evident unease, Hutch appropriated a napkin from the nearby holder, reached in and took one. The first bite was enough to convince him Ainsley had been addicted to the man’s baking for good reason. “Hmmmm, my partner’s right, Mr. Bryson. This is the best donut I’ve ever tasted! What kind of jelly do you use? Sure doesn’t taste like Welch’s.”

Bryson actually smiled. “That’s the secret of those, for sure. But it’s my mother’s recipe, can’t give that out. Glad you like it, though. Now, show me the picture so that I can get back to my kitchen.”

Making sure his fingers were clean, Hutch handed it to him. If he hadn’t been watching closely, he’d have missed the tightening of the muscles around Bryson’s mouth and the deepening of the furrows across his forehead. But, when the baker looked up and gave the picture back, his face didn’t show any emotion. “Nope, don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.” 

Hutch pocketed the photo. “Anyone else around who worked here that long ago?”

Bryson shook his head. “Nope. I hire kids after they graduate from the local high school. They never last long.” He gestured around the small shop. “It’s not like it’s a difficult job but I can’t afford to pay much so I have a lot of turn-over.”

Starsky finished off his second donut and Hutch snatched the bag. “You’ll spoil your lunch, Starsk!”

Starsky pouted and Bryson laughed out loud. “Sorry I couldn’t help, fellas, but come back anytime. You won’t find fresher donuts anywhere!”

Hutch opened the door for Starsky and they made their way to the Torino. Once inside, Hutch glanced at Starsky’s now-intense face. “He knew him.”

“Oh, yeah, he knew him.”

“Do you think he’ll rabbit?”

“I hope not. He’s got a business to run, customers to keep satisfied. He may have been a little rattled but I don’t think we scared him too bad.” Starsky suddenly looked uncertain. “Did we?”

Hutch chuckled. “No, Starsk. I don’t think so. For a minute there I thought he was going to give you another dozen of those jelly-filled. For free!”

“Glad we didn’t mention bear claws.”

“Yeah, that might have spooked him.”

Starsky fired up the engine. “Let’s get back to the station and do a lot more digging.”

*******

Over the next few days Minnie pulled all the unsolved cases of men between the ages of eighteen and forty. Starsky and Hutch searched them thoroughly and ended up with three possibles to add to Ainsley’s.

“Different M.O.s, Hutch. One beating, one stabbing, one strangulation.”

“Yeah but each with the single notation that the victim was known to buy pastries at ‘Rise an’ Shine Bakery.’” Hutch looked up at Starsky. “What are the odds?”

Starsky smiled. “Pretty high, would be my guess.”

Hutch loved having his words given back to him and he returned the smile.

*******

Dobey was afraid the connection between the four cases was iffy but he gave his somewhat reluctant consent to finding a judge. “Vests!” he growled as Hutch opened the door for Starsky.

The third justice they tried was anxious enough to close four unsolved murders that he signed the warrant.

Hutch typed it up and they got the signature before drawing their vests from Property.

“Why don’t you guys buy your own, since you’re checkin’ ‘em out so often these days.”

Starsky gave the officious clerk a flinty stare. “Maybe we will, Bigelow.”

*******

Starsky parked outside the bakery. “Think he’s squirrelly enough to try to run for it?”

Hutch thought it was a definite possibility and nodded.

Starsky opened his door. “Give me thirty to find the back entrance.”

Hutch counted to himself, got out of the car and walked into the bakery. Missy was behind the counter again and smiled brightly at him. “Bear claws today, Detective. Just came out of the oven. Where’s your partner? He’ll love them, for sure.”

“Thanks, Missy, but…” There was the sound of running feet from the kitchen. Hutch ran around the counter and through the double doors; the back entrance was just closing. Paying no attention to the startled helpers, and drawing the Python, Hutch barreled outside and down the three steps to the alley. He needn’t have hurried. 

“What kept ya?” A grinning Starsky had Bryson face-first against a Dumpster and was clicking the second handcuff in place behind the baker’s back.

*******

Dobey shook his head. “You say one was a college student, one was a mechanic at the dealership where Bryson took his car for service, the third was a book store clerk, and Ainsley was a cop.’’

“That’s right, Captain.” Hutch was tired but he didn’t want his captain to know how closely these four cases had come to striking home with him and Starsky.

Starsky drank from the mug off coffee he had in his hand. “Each of these men was a customer at the bakery and, once Bryson was sure enough of his reading of them, he made his pitch.” 

Hutch reached for the cup and it was passed to him. He drank. “Bryson told us he’s the kind of guy who never stays satisfied for very long, though.” 

Starsky nodded. “And, as soon as he got tired of them he got rid of them.”

“Hadn’t he ever heard of just breaking up with someone?” Dobey asked.

Hutch shook his head. “He said he couldn’t take the chance that one of them would rat him out. Most of his customers are straight and he was afraid they’d stop buying his donuts if they found out he wasn’t.”

“That’s one of the coldest excuses I’ve ever heard,” Dobey muttered.

Hutch stood up and urged Starsky toward the hallway door. “We’ll be in our office, Cap’n, if you need us.”

“Good work, fellas!” Dobey lifted his own coffee cup in a salute. “I happen to know the chief’s happy with the way you’re closing these unsolveds. I heard him say you’re making mighty fine use of those lieutenants’ bars.”

Starsky stopped halfway through the door and threw a dazzling smile at Dobey. “Thanks, Cap. Tell him we appreciate it.”

*******

Starsky called Senator Whitelaw’s Bay City office and found out the politician was still in town. 

When Peter came on the phone, his voice was upbeat. “Congratulations! I just heard the news that you’ve arrested a suspect in the Ainsley killing.”

Starsky put the call on speaker. “That’s right. And he confessed to three others.”

“So I also heard.”

“Peter,” Hutch jumped in, “would you have time to meet us up in L.A. for lunch before you head back to Sacramento?”

“You bet,” Peter responded quickly. “What about today? I just had my lunch date cancel out on me?”

Hutch caught Starsky’s nod. “Great! An hour? Hour and a half?”

Paper was shuffled on the other end of the line. “Let’s say one hour. I have afternoon appointments I can’t miss.”

“Terrific!” Starsky rattled off the name and address.

*******

The French Market Place on Santa Monica Boulevard was crowded, as usual, but they were shown to a table at the far end of the fenced-off portion of the broad sidewalk.

The unabashedly gay waiter brought waters and took their orders, lingering a few extra moments to cast appraising looks at Peter. After he’d gone, Whitelaw fanned himself with his menu. “That’s the most blatant non-verbal come-on I’ve ever encountered.”

Starsky grinned. “Everybody who works here is out of the closet.”

Whitelaw watched the waiter sashay toward the kitchen. “Way out!”

Hutch and Starsky laughed. “They’re nice people,” Starsky said.

“And the food’s delicious!” Hutch added.

As many details of the cases as possible were shared with Peter during the meal. When the dishes had been cleared and dessert declined, Peter appraised each of them. “I came to you because I hoped you’d be able to find Ainsley’s murderer. I never dreamed it would be a serial and that you’d also give closure to the families of those other victims.”

Hutch shrugged. “We got lucky.”

Starsky snorted, reached across the table and took Hutch’s hand. He gave Hutch a full-face smile before turning to Peter. “We’re taking your advice. Nothing and no one’s ever going to come between us.” 

Peter raised his water glass. “John would be so very proud of both of you!”

Hutch stroked the fingers of Starsky’s hand with his thumb and poured his love into the midnight blue eyes across the table. 

 

END


End file.
